


Colours of the Aire

by ApolloSupreme



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, R Ship Week, f/m - Freeform, femtaire, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApolloSupreme/pseuds/ApolloSupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three short stories, three pairings, all involving Grantaire, one involving femtaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colours of the Aire

**Author's Note:**

> Three short drabbles to make one lovely little fic for you all.

R/Courfeyrac; Curl envy

Courfeyrac took a lot of pride in his appearance, some would say perhaps too much. His hair however, was his pride and joy. He would spend hours washing and conditioning and adding serums and creams and drying and curling it. Courfeyrac’s hair was his hubris, and he would never allow for it to be anything less than perfectly curled; it was his greatest lament that he had been born with pin straight hair. 

Grantaire had oft despaired of his hair; the curls were untameable and tangled together, making it a pain in every way to brush them out. He had long ago given up on maintenance beyond the basic shampoo. When he had been younger and given a damn he had tried straightening it only to realise that despite the hours it took to actually get it in a semblance of straightness it curled back within half the hour. Now he just left it to its own thing, tugging it out of his face with an alice band he nicked off his sister when painting.

Courfeyrac often found himself staring enviously across the room at Grantaire’s curly hair, wincing in horror at the lack of care the man put into them, tugging his hand carelessly through it, picking at bits of paint dried into it. He was ninety per cent sure the man knew how much it annoyed Courfeyrac by that infernal smirk he would throw at him as he did it. 

If he had curls like that, he mourned twirling one around his finger to tighten it up. The hat perched on his head to protect the curls from the elements was positioned carefully to amplify the carefully structured curls rather than flatten them. He scowled as a gust of wind barely shifted the tangled mess on the drunkards head. 

Later that night he sat in front of his mirror pressing at the curls to get them to stick, ignoring the laughter bubbling from the bed behind him. 

“I don’t know why you bother, you look just as grand without them.” The husky voice sent shivers down Courfeyrac’s spine, Grantaire knew exactly how to get what he wanted from Courfeyrac and the man had soon left the mirror and his curls to stretch out across the darker haired man and tangle his fingers in those neglected ringlets, tugging harshly at them in envy. Grantaire’s grin never left his face, barely feeling the tugs on his hair. 

“The treatment you give your hair is positively blasphemous.” Courfeyrac scolded, trying to separate the tangles with his fingers. 

“But when my competition is you, there seems little point to put effort in, when I would have less glorious hair no matter.” Courfeyrac remained silent working diligently on tidying the glorious locks of Grantaire. 

He could feel the older man’s breathing slowing and evening and eventually even Courfeyrac’s eyes were too heavy to stay open, but he continued working until Grantaire’s curls fell delicately and smoothly around his face, adorning and almost glossy look now it was neat and brushed, rather than left to tangle. 

He smiled victoriously and buried his face in amongst the curls, closing his eyes and relishing in the warmth and scent of his lover. 

* * *

R/Jehan; Art

Grantaire and Jehan loved to make art together. In the café where Jehan would spout lines and they occurred to him, Grantaire sketching his words. As much as his Apollo inspired awe and devotion within him, Jehan was the one who made images appear through his hand, who was his muse. In the gardens and parks Jehan would find Grantaire sketching and would perch nearby to write, taking inspiration from his surroundings and Grantaire would hear him muttering under his breath and the disjointed words of a poem incomplete would sprawl across the page into glorious likenesses and colour. Jehan would gush in awe and change ink to match the paint, his words were the art. In the bedroom, Jehan would whisper sweet promises and recite the most beautiful of poems and Grantaire would paint his words all over his body.

* * *

R/Feuilly; Fan

Her wrist was delicate, wrapped in a silken white glove. Feuilly delighted in making fans to decorate that wrist, some of his best work went out to her. 

“Mademoiselle Grantaire.” He greeted politely from his workbench and at last those fathomless dark eyes turned to him.

“Monsieur.” She greeted lightly, striding forward hand outstretched, Feuilly stood hastily to greet her properly. 

“Another fan?” He asked lightly, noting her bare wrist.

“Indeed, your designs are so delightful that despite the sturdiness of the workmanship, I find myself desiring yet more and am accumulating quite the collection. I am surely the envy of many a madam.” She noted lightly, an almost mocking tone to her voice towards the frivolities of society. 

“I am honoured you hold my work in such high esteem.” He watched her wander around the shop front, delighting in the sunlight shifting around her form, dust motes giving the scene an ethereal quality.

“I wonder if you might give me one suitable for a crowded café.” She asked finally coming to a halt near the door. 

“A café?” he asked curiously, hoping for more to go on. A design can change dependent upon the occasion and the people crowding the café, not to mention the establishment itself.

“The Musain. I have observed that it is quite popular lately, often gathering a crowd in the evening when it is usually closed. I am sure I have seen you there on occasion so I’m sure you’ll know what design is suited. I shall come around again in a week at this time.” And with a curt nod she was off, the door softly closing behind her. The shop seemed doubly silent with the absence of her swishing skirts. 

One week later and Feuilly awaited her return with both the desired fan and a surprise invitation to attend the Musain together that evening as ‘it would not be right to leave a lady to the mercies of such brutes as those gathered in the café at these meetings’. 


End file.
